


The Years Keep on Turning

by katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)



Series: Oneshot Collection [5]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Sexual Content, canon compliant mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: A oneshot look at Katniss’ birthdays through the years. Canon compliant, written for May 8th, 2016, our muse Katniss Everdeen’s birthday





	The Years Keep on Turning

**ELEVEN**

 

She plays in the meadow, twirling and leaping, pretending to have wings like a bird so she can fly. Her father needs only a word, though, to draw her from play and into their chores. The flying girl doesn’t view the chores with distaste at all. She rather enjoys them, especially the moments of free time they get to savor the woods. Like today.

 

“Come down from that tree, Hummingbird,” the girl’s father calls up to her, his hands cupped around his mouth to amplify the sound. She grins and flips so she’s hanging from the branch by her knees, completely missing her father’s gasp of fear and the handful of running steps he makes towards the base of the tree before her giggle stops him.

 

“Your Mama’s waiting with your birthday surprise,” he admonishes, the fear of a moment ago making his voice harsher than intended. The girl sobers, hearing the subtle difference, and swings her feet over her head to the branch below before scurrying down the trunk and landing with a soft crunch of leaves, next to her father.

 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispers, her expression contrite.

 

“It’s okay, Katniss,” the father says, picking up the girl’s game bag and handing it to her. “But we should get going.”

 

She’s quiet as they trek back through the woods and slip through a hole in the fence. She barely speaks as they make several stops, trading fresh game for daily essentials and a handful of coin. She tries to be serious, mature. She’s eleven today, after all, and as they pass by the square, her feet pause, eyes raking over the Hall of Justice, mind briefly caught in thoughts of next year as fear creeps in to push joy aside.

 

Trades completed, the pair make the short journey home, the man pulling his daughter into his side and squeezing her a little, drawing a soft smile to her mouth, and a reassurance that her Papa isn’t really angry with her.

 

When the man pushes open the door to a squat, two-room shack neighboring a meadow, newly bloomed and carpeted in fresh green, the cheers of, “Happy Birthday!” greet them.

 

Katniss’ eye widen as she spots a small cake on the table. Not much, just a few bites of frosted deliciousness, but all for her. She wonders what her Papa had to sacrifice that she might have such a treat.

 

Later, after supper has been consumed and cleared away, her father presents the small cake to Katniss, and eyes alight, she takes one small bite, savoring the decadence of it until the spongy cake begins to turn soggy. She swallows and offers the next bite to her little sister, once more missing the rapid forward step of her father, and the quiet negative shake of her mother’s head. She doesn’t miss the confused look on her father’s face, though, when she turns to him with a forkful of the treat.

 

“Would you like a taste, Papa?” she asks in a strained voice, uncertain how she’s already managed to disappoint him again. But his face softens as he sits beside her and nods.

 

“I’d love a taste, Hummingbird. Thank you for sharing your special treat,” he says before opening his mouth. Katniss shrugs, dismissing his assessment of her thoughtfulness, and places the morsel in his mouth.

 

As she takes a second bite for herself, she misses another secret glance between mother and father, a silent wondering of how they managed to raise a girl with such a welcoming heart and generous nature. But the silent conversation ends when she offers the last bite to her mother.

 

“Happy Birthday,” the father murmurs as he tucks her into bed beside Prim that night.

 

“Thanks, Papa,” she murmurs sleepily. “Today was the best birthday ever.”

 

The father chuckles, his eyes growing sad as his daughter drifts into slumber. He can’t bring himself to lie to her, to tell her that next year will be even better. Because it won’t be. Next year’s rite of passage involves slips of papers in a glass bowl and the potential to receive an almost certain death sentence.

 

The father sighs heavily and kisses his raven-haired girl on the forehead before shuffling to the wash stand so he can have a moment of quiet as he prepares for bed, already searching for a way to make next year memorable for his girl, despite the dangers.

 

**TWELVE**

 

The girl’s feet move swift and sure as she steps up to the large desk, the one her eyes barely peek over, even though she’s now twelve. The man working behind the desk continues typing rapidly on a noisy piece of machinery that whirs and dings before a tubular section slides back across and clicks into place. Then the clicking and clacking continues, so fast, the girl can barely distinguish one click from the next. She palms the handle of her toy wagon and clears her throat, but the man continues pounding away at the machine.

 

_ Click-click-click-click-clack-click-clack-clack-click-click-click-click-clack-click-clack-DING! _

 

“Excuse me,” she says, her voice unheard over the noise of efficiency. She can hear fear in each  _ click _ and the resounding of her own death in each _ clack _ , but this needs to be done, so she swallows and gathers her courage before speaking up once more. “Excuse me, sir!”

 

The noise halts abruptly as the man leans over the machine to peer down his nose at her. She dares not look away from his cold hazel eyes as he stares at her, his nose wrinkling in distaste. She bristles under his perusal, indignant that he’d look at her as though she were scum. She washed before she came, and put on fresh clothes. They’re a little big still, since she’s not yet regained all the weight she’s lost since January, but she’s clean and presentable.

 

“I’m here to register for tesserae,” she says unable to keep the bite from her voice, but the man's entire demeanor changes at her announcement.

 

“Well, young lady! Glad to hear you’ve taken a patriotic interest in your country,” he declares as he pulls a log book from the drawer of his desk. It lands on the wooden surface with a loud  _ thud _ that makes the girl jump. “State your name.”

 

“Katniss Everdeen,” she says, suddenly feeling a bit weak in the knees. Unbidden, the thought comes to her that if Papa were still alive, she wouldn’t be here. She’d only have one entry come July. But no…

 

She fights back a petulant sniffle as she spells her name for the man. He checks her name against another log book then asks her to present her hand. Katniss barely flinches as he draws the requisite sample of blood. Once the man has updated her information in the log book, he scrawls his name across a slip and marks the number six beside it. Then his hand extends across the desk.

 

Katniss stands on her toes to reach the slip and nods mutely as he points her towards another office down the hall. Dismissed, she follows the man’s directions, the wheels of the wagon squeaking with every turn, reminding her that she’s supposed to be just a child. Now she’s a child with a value in terms of quarts of oil and pounds of grain attached to her name.  

 

The second room is tiny, barely enough room for her and her wagon to fit, with only a window covered in bars. She stands on tiptoe and peers through the bars at the rows upon rows of shelves, stocked with cans of foodstuffs and sacks of grains.

 

“Can I help you?” a weary voice asks and she automatically hands over her slip, awed by the sheer volume of food on the other side of the bars. She’s never seen so much in one place before. It only takes a few minutes before the woman returns with an armload of rations. She opens the bars long enough to pass the rations through then slams the bars shut, the metallic clang jarring in the tiny space, making Katniss jump again and scowl. 

 

She loads the rations into her toy wagon and lifts her chin proudly as she walks from the building. When she gets home, she finds places to store everything, which doesn’t take long, then starts mixing ingredients to make the course drop biscuits from a small portion on the grain ration. She measures each one meticulously, so as to not waste a single bit. As she works, she glances over at her sister, where she sits brushing their mother’s hair and cooing softly.

 

No one seems to remember that today is her twelfth birthday.

 

**SIXTEEN**

 

The girl leans back on her elbows, soaking in the warm rays of still early spring sunshine, breathing deep the fresh mountain air. Beside her, a boy sharing her dark coloring lounges, hands resting lightly on his knees. They’ve finished a hard day of hunting and have decided to take a rest before they return to town to trade.

 

She tilts her head back, knowing that time has lengthened her features so that she no longer looks much like the little girl who dragged a toy wagon to gamble her life for sustenance. Even though she continues to gamble her own life, it’s been worth it. Her sister is fresh as morning dew, bright and warm as the spring sunshine, and as safe as she can be, two weeks out from her own twelfth birthday.

 

“Got you something,” the boy beside her says in his simple way. She cracks one eye and her lips twitch in a semblance of a smile.

 

“You didn’t have to,” she says, knowing how hard he works to provide for his own. He doesn’t need to be spending money on her, too.

 

“It’s not much,” he insists, holding out a slim object wrapped in rough canvas and tied with twine. Despite her better judgement, she can’t help the small flicker of joy inside as he wishes her a Happy Birthday.

  
Birthdays are strange holidays in her world. They mark one more year of survival, but also additional entries. More slips in a glass bowl with her name on it. Twenty this year. The thought casts a brief pall on the boy’s gift until she pulls aside the canvas to reveal a shiny new blade, although the scarred handle fits in her palm in a familiar and comforting manner.

 

“Thanks,” she says, unable to meet his eyes. Uncertain how to deal with this first birthday gift from him.

 

“Nah,” he says and waves it off. “Felt bad since it’s my fault the last blade broke.”

 

She laughs lightly and pulls out the old leather sheath from her game bag, where she’d stashed it after the incident with the black bear left them scrambling for cover and the blade of her hunting knife broken. The boy had gotten distracted for a moment and didn’t notice the approaching predator until it was too late.

 

Sheathing the knife she smiles at her friend and resumes her position, enjoying these last carefree moments in her woods before they have to return to town.

 

“Guess you’ll be expecting a gift from me in October, then,” she says and he laughs a little but doesn’t answer her.

 

Neither of them mention the possibility that one of them could be dead come October, but the thought hangs in the air around them, and the girl suddenly feels cold.

 

“We should head back,” she says and stands swiftly, brushing dirt from her clothes and silently gathering her belongings while the boy does the same.

 

**SEVENTEEN**

 

She curses and glares at the boy goading her to move faster, harder, longer. It’s her birthday, and she knows it’ll probably be her last, plans on it being her last, but that doesn’t keep her from second guessing her choice to save the boy in front of her over herself.

 

Her anger only froths higher as she watches him move effortlessly from their squatting position upright for another lap around the twelve houses in neat rows with perfect little spring gardens ready to bloom, a few that already have. She focuses on a bead of sweat running down the back of his pale neck as she follows him and wonders what he’d say if she told him today was her birthday.

 

She used to think he was her friend, her unfailing ally, but on days like today, when he withholds any sign of affection, she starts to doubt it. Days like today are becoming far too frequent for her liking, even though her common sense knows this is the best route.

 

They finish their last lap and she collapses to the ground, panting, her only consolation the glimpse she catches of him rubbing his thigh, right above the metal and plastic leg the Capitol gave him. He’s in pain, even if he won’t let her see it. Good, she thinks with her burning lungs and aching legs. All feeling stopped in her arms about an hour ago.

 

“Same time tomorrow,” he says, and walks slowly off towards his house. The older man finally catches up and falls to the ground beside her, spewing out curses that make her blush and rile her indignation.

 

“He’s just trying to keep us alive,” she spits out, and the old man barks in laughter at her.

 

“Aw Sweetheart, you warming back up to him? I thought I heard you mention castrating him, yesterday.”

 

“I said no such thing,” she answers, face flaming for inexplicable reasons, and forces her limbs to work, to get herself inside her house and away from Haymitch’s acerbic words. The uncomfortable things they make her feel. It’s easier to hate the boy. It’s always been easier when she could hate him.

 

But she can’t.

 

Especially not when she walks through the door of her kitchen to find her mother carefully placing a one tier cake on the counter. Frosted green and decorated with sugared blossoms. All done by Peeta’s hands. A card propped next to it, with the words  _ Happy 17th Birthday, Katniss _ , written in his careful script over a painting of the woods in all their spring glory. She has to excuse herself for a moment, so her mother doesn’t see the tears collecting in her eyes. One part joy, one part longing, another part sadness she can’t explain.

 

No, she can’t hate him at all.

 

**EIGHTEEN**

 

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” The girl screams and throws the sack with warm loaves of bread out the door, the boy backing away with his hands up in the air. She slams the door between them and collapses against it, her body wracked in sobs as she mourns another year of her life gone by. An arrow shot at a lightning riddled sky, a war, a bomb. And now two weeks from her sister’s fourteenth birthday, providence delivers her with a reminder of how she’s alive and her Little Duck is not.

 

“Katniss,” the boy’s voice reaches her through the door. “I know you don’t want to see me, and that’s okay. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. I’m just going to stay right here, on the porch, okay?”

 

She doesn’t say anything but doesn’t stop the tears either, accepting that today will be a lost day. He doesn’t deserve her wrath, all he did was deliver a box of frosted cookies along with the usual loaves of bread, his expression uncertain, as though he knew it might set her off, but couldn’t pass the day without giving the sentiment to her.

 

“I’ll stay right here,” he says once more, softer this time, and she imagines him flattening his palm on the other side of the door. She flattens her own palm on the panel, channeling his steadiness, the way they did with the invisible wall when mutts stealing her sister’s voice screamed horror at her. She wonders if he now remembers that as it happened, or if the memory is still warped in his mind.

 

She cries until her voice is raw and her throat burns, snot running down her chin. His voice continues, soft and soothing. It occurs to her that she has no idea when his birthday is. If he’s still seventeen or if he’s already eighteen, like she is now. The thought only makes her cry harder, the possibility that he spent it alone, with no family, no one to comfort him the way he’s doing for her. Or worse, did his birthday pass while he was in the Capitol? Being tortured? Strapped to a bed and half out of his mind in Thirteen? In the stinking sewers running from lizard mutts that stole away their faithful ally? She can’t bear the possibility and crumples in on herself further.

 

“I should be dead,” she wails. “Not her.”

 

“It’s okay to feel that way,” he says. “I felt that way, too. About my brothers.”

 

She can hear the tears in his voice and hers breaks on a ragged moan of unadulterated pain. It was easier being numb, waiting for death. This living business is just too hard. She sits there, hand on the door, rocking herself and wishing the fire took her instead. She deserved to burn.

 

When her sobs begin to abate, she hears the scrape of his body shifting on the other side.

 

“Katniss, can I open the door now?” he asks gently.

 

“NO!” She yells, although her conviction has fled, and she presses both hands against the barrier between them.

 

“I could really use a hug right now,” he whispers and she laughs maniacally, knowing it’s one of his tricks, but no longer caring anymore. She twists the knob and lets him open the door, clings to him when he scoops her into his arms and kicks the door shut behind them. She doesn’t put up a fight as he carries her into the kitchen and settles into one of the wooden chairs, buries his face in her hair, his finger digging into her flesh.

 

She’s not sure how long they sit there, crying together, but eventually, she must fall asleep, because she wakes up in her bed, his boots carefully placed at the foot and his arms wrapped protectively around her, the skin around his eyes puffy and red.

 

When she’s sure he’s asleep, his lashes fluttering with dreams and his breathing steady and deep, she nuzzles into his neck, inhaling his scent, and grateful he found his way back here somehow.

 

His arms tighten around her and he shifts slightly, the sun catching his lashes as he blinks awake and smiles at her.

 

“Happy Birthday, Katniss,” he whispers. She grips his shirt and inhales sharply, but presses a kiss to his cheek, a soft brush of butterfly wings.

 

“When’s yours, Peeta?” she asks, determined to make it special for him. Somehow.

 

**NINETEEN**

 

“FUCK! IT’S COLD!” Peeta’s shout echoes across the lake as he races back out from its depths, scaring a flock of geese into flight.

 

Katniss laughs and splashes at him. He dodges the spray, snatches up a blanket to wrap around himself and glares at her, although his blue eyes lack any real anger.

 

“This was your idea!” she laughs.

 

“And it was an awful idea. Why’s it so cold?”

 

“Because it rained yesterday,” she says with another laugh, enjoying his discomfort. “Aren’t you going to swim with me?”

 

“No thanks,” he says with a shake of his head. He uses the blanket the rub his limbs dry and warm. “I think I’ll just watch you. Don’t expect me to rescue you if you catch hypothermia.”

 

“You can’t resist trying to rescue me,” she says and cups her hand. She flings water towards him, but she’s drifted too far out and he’s left untouched. With his gaze warm on her, she swims the width of the lake and back, flips over to float on her back, briefly worried about her patchwork of scars covering her skin. He says he doesn’t care. He’s marked the same as her. 

 

Her stomach rumbles loudly and she remembers the basket he carried as they hiked out here. It took them well over the hour she’d told him it would take because he kept wanting to stop and look, to drink in the deep woods, festooned in their spring colors. Newly budding leaves, fragrant blooms, the occasional wildlife scampering through the brush, and the mockingjays.

 

He whistled to a few, a merry dance tune, and even got one to sing back to him, which made them both smile. Sometimes, Katniss likes to think of the mockingjays as the ones she’s lost. Rue. Prim. So many others who brought song and life to her world. Promises to live her life fully so their deaths mattered. Were not in vain.

 

And now, living her life means enjoying the lunch Peeta prepared for them to share. She climbs from the lake, her gaze dropping in shyness as he watches her, not bothering to hide the naked desire in his eyes. She’s felt it stirring again, too. More powerful in recent days, almost frightening in it’s strength. But also warm and familiar. A reminder that they’re alive and together.

 

Despite the chill of the water dappling her body, her skin flushes under his perusal and Katniss hastily wraps herself in the blanket he offers her. He grins, but keeps his comments on purity and modesty to himself, knowing how much they bother her.

 

“I’m hungry,” she says. “Let’s eat.”

 

Peeta obliges, spreading a birthday feast before her. Cooked chicken in a savory herb sauce, apple slices, warm tea, fresh baked bread. Always bread. Even a small chocolate cake for two, iced with green lettering.

 

“Happy Birthday, Katniss,” he says, echoing the sentiment frosted onto the cake as he hands her a heaping plate of food.

 

“Thank you, Peeta,” she says with a smile. He gives it back to her, with sunshine in his hair and the spring sky in his eyes.

 

They stay at the lake much later than they should, and it’s almost dark when they finally reach their house. Peeta has long since relinquished his house to another family, insisting it never felt like a home. She had been hesitant to stay in hers, the halls echoing with the ghostly remembrance of her sister’s laughter. But it had been their home, if only briefly. Peeta’s presence in it made it more so.

 

He drops the picnic basket in the kitchen, and quickly washes dishes, insisting she sit and enjoy the last slice of her birthday cake. She watches the flex of his arms as he scrubs, notes the red splotches on his neck where he caught a tad too much sun. In the morning, it will have faded, patches of freckles replacing the burns.

 

Katniss stuffs another bite of cake in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He glances back over at her and smiles. The quiet between them comfortable. There has been much talking in the past year or so since he came home. Tonight, she doesn’t feel like talking. As he finishes placing the last dish in the rack to dry and towels off his hands, she stands, pressing her front to his back and wrapping her arms around him. He rests one hand on top of hers and leans back into the embrace.

 

“Ready for bed?” he asks. 

 

She nods against him, uncertain how to tell him about this last gift she wants from him. Uncertain if he’ll even want to provide it, contrary to all the evidence that he does. She’s felt him hard against her in the mornings, and sometimes in the middle of the night. She’s come home to hear him moaning in the shower, grunting in his release, although she’s been too afraid to intrude. Too embarrassed by the possibility that it was not thoughts of her that drove him to touch himself that way. And there are the looks he gives her, like the one at the lake today, full of want and need and sensual promises she’s eager to fulfill.

 

“Yeah,” she says when he doesn’t move, her voice strangely hoarse. He tilts his head to examine her.

 

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” he asks, and that won’t do, because if he starts talking, she may lose her grasp on the hunger now curling in her middle, so she does what she’s always done to shut him up, lifting on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth.

 

“No,” she says, and taking his hand, leads him upstairs to their bed. She’s nervous, though, her hands shaking as her belly burns for him. They go through their normal routine, preparing for bed. He changes to his pajama pants, she dons the top, their clothes soiled from the day at the lake placed in the hamper. He cracks the window while she brushes her teeth. She hides under the covers while he brushes his.

 

When he slips into the bed, she hopes he can’t hear her desperate panting or the pounding of her heart. She wants this. Wants him. It’s time, but her body has switched to panic mode against her will.

 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks tentatively as he pulls her into his embrace.

 

“I’m fine,” she squeaks, and she can tell he still doesn’t believe her, so she plasters her mouth to his and hopes he can take care of the rest. But he tries to halt the kiss, pulling away so she has to chase after him and swallow his attempts at words. Frustrated, she slides her hand inside his pants and rests her palm against him. He’s soft, but warm, and she rubs to get a better sense of what she’s only felt through layers of clothes.

 

He hisses into her mouth and his body jerks at her touch. She’s worried she’s done something wrong, until she realizes he’s kissing her back, given up on all attempts at talking. They kiss leisurely, learning the secret hidden places of one another’s mouths now that they have the luxury of time.

 

They’ve kissed since the sewers, but not like this. Not like on the beach.

 

He tangles his fingers into her hair, tugging on the strands as his hips begin to rock into her touch and she can feel him growing thicker and hard against her palm. The hunger strengthens and spreads. Like the handful of times she’s pleasured herself, the aching wetness gathers between her legs, saturating her panties.

 

“Katniss,” he murmurs into the moonlight, the sound of her name on his lips a glorious song to her ears. His lips kiss her cheeks, her ears, her jaw, her neck, until she’s panting and her hand grasps his now erect length. He moans and snatches her hand away, kissing each of her fingers, her palm, her wrists, up to her elbows as her restless legs writhe on the bed. 

 

“Don’t you want me to touch you?” she asks in a breathy voice, and he groans into her collarbone as his hands fumble with the buttons of the pajama top.

 

“Fuck, yes,” he releases in a strained moan. “But I want to touch you first.”

 

“Oh,” she says, feeling slight disappointment. It only lasts until he has the shirt unbuttoned and he lays the two sides open, baring her to him. She flinches, hating her scars, but he laves them and every untouched stretch of her skin with his tongue and his lips, murmuring words of love into each hollow and shadow on her body.

 

Her back arches and she grips his hair for something to hold onto, undone by the way he treats her as though she’s the gift, and not the other way around. She’s so lost in the sensations that she doesn’t notice him removing her panties until his mouth and nose nuzzle into her wet folds.

 

“Peeta!” she rasps, pulling on his hair to get his face away from that area.

 

“Please, Katniss,” he says in a tone that sounds suspiciously like begging. “Please let me do this.”

 

Her mouth gapes, but she nods, unknowing what she’s consenting to until his tongue parts her folds and he moans loudly, the sound hungry, before licking up her arousal like a man starved. Her eyes roll back in her head as she arches into his mouth, inhuman moans pulled from her throat. She didn’t know a man could do this to a woman, didn’t know it could feel so decadent.

 

She lets loose the girl on fire and the girl with the toy wagon, making room for the woman who grips the sheets and screams the name of her sunshine boy, who she really ought to think of as a man now, given the way he’s feasting on her and driving her to wicked thoughts of future nights in sweat tangled sheets and entwined limbs.

 

Grabbing a pillow, she smothers her face with it to stop the noises, and only succeeds in muffling them as her legs clamp around his head and the room bursts into brilliant sunshine, a million butterflies fluttering madly through her skin and her soul.

 

Katniss can’t breath under the pillow, though and flings it aside as he kisses her thighs, her hips, her navel, and finally back down to her lips, still quivering with the remainder of her release.

 

“Damn, that was amazing,” he says as he pulls himself up her body and kisses her neck again, his erection brushing her widespread thigh. She chuckles.

 

“Shouldn’t I be saying that?”

 

He lifts his head and insecurity flickers in his eyes.

 

“I...you did enjoy it, didn’t you?” he asks softly. “I thought you--”

 

She yanks his head back down to hers and kisses him soundly, hoping to wipe away all of his doubts with her lips. He hesitates at first but as her legs wind around his, he relaxes into the kiss.

 

“Peeta,” she asks as his mouth trails hotly over her body once more. “I need…”

 

She wishes for his gift with words in this moment, unable to voice what she wants from him. Instead she reaches between them and pushes his pants down so she can grasp him once more, pulling him to her center. He gets the hint and shucks the pants. He joins their lips as he joins their bodies. She winces at the slight pinch and the unbearable fullness. He moans and his fingers dig into the sheets, turning his knuckles white in the moonlight.

 

“Katniss,” he whispers against her lips once his hips are flush with hers. “I can wait. Tell me when you’re ready. Fuck, you feel incredible.”

 

She squirms beneath him, trying to adjust to feel of him inside her like this. He releases a pained sound and his hips rock slightly. She freezes, afraid she’s somehow hurt him, finally looking up at his face. His features are contorted and he’s biting his lower lip, and a long past conversation with her mother returns to her. At the time, it only made her feel awkward, but looking at Peeta now, she can understand what her mother meant about it feeling so good for a man that it was almost unbearable.

 

Armed with this knowledge, she moves her hips and Peeta releases his lip with a strangled noise deep in his chest.

 

“Peeta,” she says and caresses his cheek, waits until he looks at her. “Don’t wait. I don’t want you to wait.”

 

“I want it to be good for you, too,” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers. She tilts her chin up to kiss him.

 

“It already is,” she whispers, and nearly shouts with triumph when he starts moving. It doesn’t feel amazing, but neither does it hurt as he pumps into her. Gradually, it does feel better, and just as the delightful feeling he managed to create with his mouth begins to return, he throws his head back with a cry as his hips buck wildly for a few seconds.

 

When he stops moving, he starts swearing at himself, and she can feel him pulsing inside her. She watches his face in his bliss and smiles, making a silent promise to them both that this won’t be the last time.

 

“Katniss,” he starts and brushes several strands of hair away from her face. His arms are shaking and she pulls him down to rest his weight on her chest, the hair on his tickling her breasts. “I’m--”

 

“Shhhh,” she hushes him before he can apologize.

 

“Next time,” he tries again in an uncertain voice and she turns her head to kiss him and halt his words. She keeps kissing him until neither of them can breath and he’s as engaged in the kiss as she is.

 

He bumps his nose against hers and sighs before finally looking into her eyes, his expression as bright and wide as the summer sky.

 

“You love me,” he pants, soft as moonbeams. “Real or not real?”

 

“Real,” she whispers back.

 

An hour later, when they’re joined again, with her nails scraping his back raw, her body bowed into his as she finds release again, and again, he whispers another plea into the night.

 

“Say it again. Please, Katniss.”

 

“Real, Peeta!” she shouts so the moon can hear it too.

 

**TWENTY**

 

Her hair’s already a mess since they started the celebration late last night, with his tongue hot on her skin and her fingers pulling on his hair. She tries to hide from him, but he catches her round the waist, telling her the tea and breakfast can wait as he tosses her over his shoulder and races to their bedroom where he drops her onto the mattress and makes her come until she’s screaming for a reprieve and their neighbor throws a rock through the open window, cursing damn kids and their hormones.

 

Peeta places his hand over her mouth and grabs her hip with his other hand, tugging on her to get her to keep riding him.

 

“Ignore that old geezer,” he says hotly. “I know you’ve got another one in you.”

 

She shatters with the fleshy part of his hand between the thumb and forefinger clenched in her teeth and her fingers leaving claw marks on his chest, but he follows right behind her, face schrunched and stomach clenched in the effort to stay quiet.

 

As she falls on top of him and he tries to tame her tangled hair at least a little, he kisses her temple and murmurs to her, the words drawing an unfettered smile for the first time in ages.

 

“Happy Birthday, Katniss.”

 

She wishes all her birthdays could be like this one.

 

**TWENTY-THREE**

 

She didn’t even know this was what she wanted for her birthday until she opens the door and finds the gaggle of guests on her porch. Peeta grins at her flabbergasted expression and herds them all inside along with their bags, all of which he’s somehow carrying, while she’s swamped with hugs. Her mother. Annie and her adorable son, who looks so much like Finnick that Katniss feels as though she’s been kicked in the gut. Johanna, smirking and elbowing her soon-to-be-wife with a crude comment about Katniss finally nailing the baker for real.

 

She blushes furiously and wonders if it’s that obvious just from the way they look at each other. Then she watches as Peeta plays with Annie’s son and no longer cares if people know she’s basically married to Peeta. In fact, she wants them to know. Because she’s never letting him go again.

 

It’s not even her birthday yet, that’s technically tomorrow, but their house is flooded with laughter and love, enough to overcome the minute her mother spends staring into what used to be Prim’s room with unshed tears glistening in her eyes. Katniss wraps her in a hug, and together they cry. Quiet and gentle, still mournful, but not nearly as gut-wrenching as that first birthday Katniss spent in this house after the Games and Snow and the war and Coin.

 

When the house finally settles for the night, Katniss catches Peeta before he opens the window and drops to her knees in front of him, ignoring his protests that this is her birthday and he should be doing this for her before she finally gets him in her mouth and he stops talking in favor of stuffing his own mouth with his forearm and biting down so their guests don’t hear the desperate sounds he makes as he cums in her mouth.

 

The bed still squeaks as Katniss writhes over him once he’s recovered from his first orgasm, though, and a few knowing looks get thrown her way over the breakfast table the next morning. She tells them all to shut up before she kisses Peeta in front of them all.

 

It’s in the middle of the day that she decides there’s something else she wants for her birthday this year, and at dinner, she snatches the loaf of bread off the table before anyone can slice it, and Peeta’s jaw drops when she tells them all to join her in front of the fireplace, asks her mother to sing the toasting song.

 

She doesn’t want Capitol documents or Justice Hall approval. She wants what Peeta once announced they’d done in the Quarter Quell, a marriage that’s theirs and theirs alone. And as he feeds her a bite of toasted bread, his smile provides enough light to illuminate the entire world. She knows hers mirrors his as she can’t quite mold her mouth to his the way they usually fit with how high both their lips are turned up in joy.

 

**TWENTY-EIGHT**

 

She stretches and reaches out, her head jerking up when she finds cold sheets beside her. For a second, the old fears return. He’s gone. Peeta’s gone. She’s lost him again. 

 

But before her heart can start palpitating, their door swings open and fear rushes out to be replaced with relief as he places a tray piled high with breakfast next to her.

 

“Happy Birthday,” he murmurs in between the kisses she peppers over his face. Breakfast is forgotten as they lose themselves in kisses. Honking geese interrupt, though, and Peeta sighs. Haymitch hasn’t been feeling well lately, years of drinking finally beginning to catch up to him.

 

Standing from the bed, Peeta insists he’ll check in on their old mentor while she enjoys her breakfast. Then they can hike out into the woods if she wants to.

 

Peeta doesn’t join her in the woods everyday. The new bakery in town and other business with running District Twelve keep him busy most days, but on special occasions, he’ll go with her, bringing his sketchbook with him.

 

“I’d like that,” she says softly and munches on the toast as she listens to his heavy tread on the stairs and then crossing their home to the front door.

 

It’s so big, this house, and sometimes it feels so empty. They have visitors more often now, but there are days she longs for something. A different kind of laughter or something. A primal part of her knows exactly what she wants, but the part of her that panicked at the empty bed this morning keeps her from naming it.

 

Peeta’s not gone long and she dresses quickly, pulling on her boots and old hunting jacket before braiding her hair. He smiles as they join hands and head out towards the fence, using the gates erected after the fall of the Capitol to cross into the more wild areas of the woods.

 

At the lake, Peeta sketches as she soaks up the sun’s rays, her mind dancing around her desires until the words blurt out of her mouth in an incomprehensible string.

 

“Iwannahaveachild.”

 

His hands freeze on the paper and he looks at her with lifted eyebrows.

 

“What did you say?”

 

Her face burns, and fear tries to knock her desires back down into the darkest recesses of her mind. She has to take a few deep breaths and remind herself that Snow and Coin are dead. There are no Games. No Capitol. And on the other side of the fence they just crossed, the meadow has turned green again, flourishing in the wake of destruction. A place where their children could safely play.

 

She sits up and turns to face him fully, resting on her knees, hands gripping her own thighs. Struck with the enormity of this moment, she shivers once before regaining control of her runaway fears.

 

“I want to have a child,” she says again, calmly this time. “With you.”

 

He sets the sketchbook aside and motions for her to move closer, and she catches the spark of humor in his eyes, her lips already twitching at whatever he plans on saying.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m getting a little hard of hearing in my old age. I thought I heard you say that you wanted to have a kid.”

 

“With you,” she repeats, so he knows she means it. He nods and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I didn’t mean now!”

 

Her hands grapple with his as her eyes sweep the woods, the thought that anyone could happen upon them prevalent in her mind.

 

“I’m not waiting for you to change your mind,” he says and she laughs as his hands bat hers away and he instead focuses on unbuttoning her shirt. “Besides, six years ago, I recall another birthday in this exact spot. We were naked, remember?”

 

Her face flames along with her blood and she picks up where he left off on his buttons, suddenly eager to have him inside her. Him and his seed. Because she meant what she said. Remnants of the fear linger, but it’s not nearly as powerful as the urge to cuddle and soothe a tow headed infant with Peeta’s blue eyes anymore. To teach that child to hunt and climb, to watch as Peeta teaches them how to paint and bake. To be kind and loving.

 

“I remember,” she says as they both fling their shirts aside and Peeta strips her of her bra before bending his head to capture one dusky nipple in his teeth, she gasps, and he chuckles.

 

“You were so loud that day,” he mumbles against her skin. “I was sure the mockingjays were going to pick up your song.”

 

They make quick work of their pants, and she lays back on the blanket, spreading herself and pulling him to her. He gapes at her for a second, undoubtedly stunned by her turnaround from tentative to desperate.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to--”

 

“Now, Peeta,” she demands, and bucks up into him so he’s buried to the hilt.

 

“Fuck,” he groans as he rolls his hips into hers, adjusting their bodies so he’s massaging the spot along her front walls that makes her mewl and clench him to the point of pain. She grips his forearms as they move together, striving towards her peak first. It takes longer than usual, since they skipped any buildup, but eventually, she tenses in anticipation and then springs loose with his name ragged on her lips.

 

A few thrusts later, he joins her, and she rolls her hips beneath him, milking all of him, and biting her lip as tears of happiness spring to her eyes.

 

They’re actually going to do this. Have a baby together.

 

That night, they take their time, Peeta lovingly caressing and kissing every inch of her and whispering how much he loves her as they rock together in their bed, the headboard banging the wall in a steady rhythm until Katniss cries out in ecstasy. Then it thuds against the wood panels in rapid succession, in time with Peeta’s erotic moaning grunts until he slams home one last time and shudders his release.

 

**THIRTY-FOUR**

 

“This is all your fault, Mellark,” she says in annoyance as she yanks his pajama pants down just enough to mount him. He grins up at her and rest his hands on her thighs.

 

“Not my fault you’re horny as fuck when you’re five months pregnant.”

 

“No,” she moans softly as she rolls her hips over him. “But it is your fault that I’m pregnant.”

 

“I’ll accept blame for that,” he breaths as he grips her ass and guides her hips over him, knowing just how to angle her hips so that she gets there fast.

 

“How long do you think we have?” she gasps as her clit rubs the right spot and her eyes drift shut.

 

“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “Just feel this.”

 

He tugs on her hips and she moans, watches him bite his lip through hooded lids. She feels the rapid build and her mouth drops open. 

 

“Fuck, you’re so sexy, Katniss,” he whispers. 

 

She tilts her head to constrict any escaping noise as her body ignites in flash of release, her legs thrashing as her walls convulse around him.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants quietly as he keeps pulling on her hips so she’s jerking wildly over him until his torso curls towards her and his leg flexes straight. When he’s done, he relaxes back on the bed and runs a hand through his now sweaty hair. “Fuck, that’s a good way to start your birthday.”

 

She smiles down at him, but before she can even suggest a shower, little feet thud down the hallway and a fist pounds on their door.

 

“Daddy! You can’t sleep in today! It’s Mama’s birthday and we have to make breakfast for her.”

 

He grins as Katniss climbs off of him.

 

“Just a minute, Pumpkin,” he says.

 

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” their daughter shouts through the door. “Waiting patently.”

 

Katniss smiles at their daughter’s mispronunciation and the rapid pattering of her feet as she runs downstairs. With his leg now strapped on, Peeta heads into the bathroom to clean himself up a little. Then the sound of running water catches her interest. A moment later, Peeta emerges and leans down to kiss her, a heated promise for more if she wants it, later.

 

“I started a bath for you,” he whispers. “Happy Birthday, Katniss.”

 

“Go make my breakfast. We’re going to need energy for what I plan on demanding as my present.”

 

Peeta grins and kisses her once more before heading downstairs to join their daughter. Katniss waddles into the bathroom and sinks into the tub, sighing with pleasure and turning off the water once the tub is full. She relaxes there, listening to the sounds of her husband and daughter in the kitchen. Laughter. Joy. She can’t wait to hug her Little Bird, but she knows they want time to prepare whatever surprise they have planned for her.

 

As she sits there, a miniscule fluttering brushes her from the inside, making her freeze. Her eyes fly open and she gingerly places her hands over her swelling stomach. The gesture meant to reassure herself that she did indeed feel the baby moving as much as it is an attempt to coax them into moving again. A delicate thump against her ribs brings tears springing to her eyes and she has to take a few deep breaths.

 

What was she thinking, agreeing to, no almost begging for, a second child? She can’t protect them. The tears leak over and she cries silently as she battles all the old fears, finally scrubbing her face with hot water to disguise the inevitable redness of her eyes as something else.

 

When she finally makes her way downstairs, Peeta isn’t fooled. Their dancing girl excitedly ushers Katniss to her seat at the table, but Peeta knows something is wrong. Katniss finds his hand and places it on her belly, nodding twice, and Peeta’s eyes widen with understanding. He rests his forehead against hers and looks deeply into her eyes.

 

“Do we need to talk?”

 

“No,” she says, eyes darting towards their daughter. “Just a moment of fear.”

 

“It’ll be okay,” Peeta reassures her, and she nods then presses her lips to his, leaning into his hand as he caresses her cheek, ignoring the giggles of their daughter as they kiss. After all, Katniss wants their children to know what real love looks like.

 

**THIRTY-EIGHT**

 

They play in the meadow, the dancing girl with her mother’s raven hair and father’s eyes of sky. The eager boy racing to keep up on still chubby legs, his sunshine curls reflecting the light, his gray eyes as piercing and watchful as his mother’s.

 

Katniss leans her head on Peeta’s shoulder, eyes swiveling between their children and the sketch Peeta’s working on. In both places, she sees their girl and their boy. Happy and healthy. Safe. They will never know tessera or the Games, and for that, she is truly grateful. Otherwise, she might never have known their sweet laughs, her daughter’s quick wit or her son’s serious brand of kindness.

 

As she watches, her dancing girl pulls a puffy dandelion, already gone to seed and explains to her brother that you must make a wish then blow the seeds free of their crown so they may spread and grow somewhere new.

 

Katniss smiles as her son tries a few but quickly loses interest. He plucks something else from the ground and toddles back over to his parents, climbing into Katniss’ lap before presenting her with a single yellow dandelion.

 

“Happy Birfday, Mama,” he says as she accepts the bloom. Then he plants a wet kiss on her cheek before rejoining his sister, who says something that makes him laugh uproariously. Her heart twists with the sounds and she looks between all her dandelions, her gaze lingering on Peeta’s as he smiles at her. She can see the memory of that one dandelion, the real one, reflected in his eyes, and she knows that she was wrong on her eleventh birthday. This one is her best birthday ever.


End file.
